


Topics of Research.

by strawberrymango



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Post Time Skip, black eagles route spoilers, just some cute fluff because i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-10-01 18:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrymango/pseuds/strawberrymango
Summary: It’s on a rather unexpected and undesired trip to the market that Linhardt realises he’s already found another topic of interest, he just hasn’t noticed the fact until very recently.OR, Linhardt realises he's in love with Caspar.





	Topics of Research.

Topics of research don’t tend to hold Linhardt’s attention for very long. He likes to flit and dart around, like a bee, pollinating a vast array of differing flowers, because staying in one place for too long is tiresome and ultimately, _boring_. The topic of crests was fun to indulge in for a while, but the longer the war stretches on for, and the more likely it seems that Emperor Edelgard is actually going to _win_ said war and see her plans come in to fruition, the looser a grip Linhardt retains around the subject, no longer certain that the future will even hold much of a use for crests at all.

It’s hard, he thinks, to find a subject that entertains him and holds his curiosity long enough for him to even begin conducting research, to acquaint himself with the intricacies of something and learn it inside and out until there’s no stone left unturned and he could teach a rather in-depth seminar had he the motivation or desire. He hopes that there’s something waiting after the war, something new and exciting, but ever the pessimist, he doesn’t expect much.

Edelgard’s been pestering him about some kind of job she’s conceived in order to pique his interest and steer his talents in an effort to suit her dream, but Linhardt’s not sure he likes the idea of being forced to do pretty much anything. He has to find his passions naturally, or they aren’t truly passions at all.

It’s on a rather unexpected and undesired trip to the market that Linhardt realises he’s already found another topic of interest, he just hasn’t noticed the fact until very recently.

He’s dragging his feet as he walks the stall-lined streets of sellers bartering and advertising their wares, and he’s thinking not only of how much he wishes to return to his quarters for a well-earned nap, but also how loud Caspar’s voice must be in order to carry so clearly over the bustle of the crowd. He wonders if there’s a science behind it, an unknown magic that allows it to resonate so boisterously and cleanly and he has the sudden urge to want to find out.

“Do you think we need one of these?” Caspar’s asking, holding up a bottled vulnerary with a spare hand, the one that’s not already carrying two new sheathed swords and a basket of fresh fruits and meats.

“Probably not,” Linhardt says. “Unless you don’t trust me to heal you correctly.”

Caspar almost drops all he is carrying in his haste to snap his head around and scowl at his friend. His expression twists in to what can only be described as downright offence, and the owner of the stall falters for a moment, watching the glass vulnerary hang precariously between Caspar’s fingers.

“Of course I trust you!” he shouts, and if Linhardt were someone else, he might have been embarrassed by the looks being sent their way. As it stands, he just quirks a lip in amusement. “I was thinking _about you_,” Caspar mutters under his breath, but it’s still loud enough to hear. “You can’t always heal yourself in the midst of battle.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Caspar, I really do. But I still haven’t gotten through the twelve you bought me last month. Now put that down before you give the vendor a heart attack.”

Caspar obliges, albeit reluctantly, and makes Linhardt promise that when he runs out, he’ll tell him so he can re-stock his stash. Linhardt doesn’t have the strength to argue that he’s perfectly capable of looking after himself, and if anything, always looks out for himself _first_ because he hates the sight of blood, especially his own, and so he complies.

To be entirely honest with himself, Linhardt’s not even sure when it got so entertaining to watch Caspar – he’s always been rowdy, always been clumsy and foolhardy and endearing and passionate, but there’s something different about him now that they’re older. Something that makes his stare linger just those few crucial seconds longer.

Linhardt feels as though five years has done nothing to alter his own appearance, sure he’s more mature, maybe, his hair has grown somewhat longer but he’s largely the same person he was back at the Academy. He can’t say the same for Caspar though; his shoulders have widened, his height now almost matches Linhardt’s own, his voice has dropped just a slight note, and his jaw has squared and set rather nicely and ruggedly. Not to mention that his years of training have added considerable bulk and muscle to his body, although he’s always encased in too many layers of cumbersome armour for Lindhardt’s liking.

He watches him for a while as they peruse more wares, as Caspar holds an animated conversation with the blacksmith about a potential idea for an upgrade on his brawling gauntlets. Linhardt watches his mouth work enthusiastically around words, with that smile that always tugs at the corner of his lips when he’s truly excited about something and finds himself inexplicably intrigued.

He’s known Caspar for years upon years, and never thought so blatantly and deeply about him, and yet when he trawls through the recesses of his mind, he cannot actually fathom a time where Caspar has not occupied at least some corner of his brain. And now that he’s barged his way to the forefront, swinging axes and swords through all of the other nonsensical things Linhardt thinks of on a daily basis, he suddenly finds that he simply must know _more_ about his friend. More than just the superficial niceties they exchange on a daily basis. He must find out all of the hidden secrets pertaining to Caspar, all of the unknown and undiscovered ways to make him smile, and understand the complexities of his mind.

“What’cha staring at, Linhardt?” Caspar asks somewhat nervously, and Linhardt hasn’t even noticed that the conversation with the blacksmith has long since ended. He’s zoned out, staring blankly at the side of Caspar’s face that’s slowly turning a pleasing shade of pink.

“I’m tired,” is what he says with a forced yawn and a shake of his head. “Are we done?”

“Almost,” Caspar says with a grin. “Just wanted to grab some food before heading back. My treat?”

“As long as it’s something sweet. You owe me considerably for dragging me out so early.”

“You didn’t _have_ to come you know,” Caspar reminds him, and Linhardt hums in lieu of a response. Because it’s true that he could have stayed within the comfort of his bed all morning, wallowing in unnecessary hours of extra sleep. But he’s never been able to refuse an invitation to follow Caspar anywhere, and some things always stay the same.

** ** **

The next time Linhardt finds himself studying Caspar, is when he’s passing the impromptu training grounds set up on the large expanse of grass outside the dorms on his way to the dining hall. He’s still got sleep stuck in the corner of his eye from the nap he’s just woken from, and as he wipes it away, he stops in his tracks and observes his friend for a moment.

Under the midday sun, Caspar has shed the majority of his armour and he’s sparring with Petra, ruining the quiet calm with startling clashes of metal. His training vest leaves his arms bare, and Linhardt can see the scars from countless battles that mar his skin in jagged lines, scars that never found the time to heal properly in the hurried bustle of war. He doesn’t ever waste time feeling sympathetic towards such marks, because he knows for certain that Caspar’s proud of them, thinks of them as trophies, as proof of his skill and prowess in besting all those who challenge him, big or small.

And yet, to Linhardt, they’re yet another facet of Caspar that he wants to explore. They reveal another slurry of questions that he longs to learn the answers to, stories he needs to hear the endings of. Ultimately, they all lie frustratingly out of arms reach, like the glass of water Linhardt leaves atop his bedside table each night before sleeping. The one he cannot muster the energy to sit up for when he needs it the most.

In truth, he knows he cannot explore Caspar the way he desires without crossing a line, a line that’s sacred and fragile and carries the weight of their entire friendship. No matter how badly he wants to test the waters, to tentatively edge a toe over that line, he values what they have achieved together so greatly, that he cannot risk disturbing the peace. Not in a time of such turmoil and anger, not when Caspar is the beacon of light and hope that keeps him afloat. Not when he knows Caspar’s feelings do not echo his own, not in the same way.

Instead, he settles for his observational research. And granted it’s not as lucrative a way to study a subject than to experience things first hand, but it’s what he’s content with. It’s what he knows is safe and good.

From his distance, he continues to watch the way Caspar’s muscles move under his skin, the way his brows furrow as he actually tries to think through practised moves rather than his outlandish improvised ones on the battlefield, and finds himself seated comfortably under a nearby tree where he’s dangerously close to succumbing to sleep once more.

“Hello Linhardt, will you be wanting to join us in training?” Petra notices him after a while, and calls off their sparring session to extend her invitation.

“Oh, hey Linhardt!” Caspar’s voice carries itself easily over to Linhardt’s ears with a pleasingly happy inflection. “When did you get here?”

“Just now,” Linhardt yawns away the nap he’d almost fallen back in to, and gets to his feet, wiping away the grassy debris from his trousers, meeting the two halfway. “And no, I will not be joining you.”

“A shame,” Petra says, “you always have such great things to say about training. It is always greatly improving my technique.”

“You don’t need me to help you improve, Petra,” Linhardt reminds her, because, yes, Linhardt is observant and can spot weaknesses and insecurities in the forms of others when wielding weapons most of the time, but Petra is ten times the warrior Linhardt will ever be. She no longer, if truly ever, needs his amateur guidance, and more importantly, he definitely does not want to spend his morning—afternoon _training._

“But your guidance is always greatly valuable,” Petra says, but Linhardt reaffirms himself with a bored shake of the head.

“I was about to get breakfast,” he says mostly to Caspar, but encompasses Petra in his hand gesture so as to not appear like a bad friend. “If you’d like to join me for a break.”

“Breakfast?” Caspar laughs. His chest moves with it, and the sunlight is making the sweat upon it glisten. Linhardt clears his throat and forces his gaze elsewhere before Caspar continues, “They stopped serving that two hours ago, but yeah. I’ll join you for some lunch. Petra?”

“I shall be staying to work on my archery,” she says with a strange glance between the two.

“Okay, nice bout today, Petra, same time tomorrow?”

“Of course, Caspar, it is always good to train against your untamed fighting style.”

“Untamed? What’s that supposed to mean, Petra—Hey!”

Linhardt cuts him off by dragging him away. This conversation has happened _way_ too many times, and he knows exactly where it’s going to end up – with Caspar locked in a needless altercation with some poor, unsuspecting knight as he tries to prove something.

Caspar’s wrist is warm beneath Linhardt’s hand, and when he realises he’s been holding on for a tad too long, and a slight bit too tightly, he lets go. Reluctantly.

The dining hall is annoyingly full when they enter, but the line appears larger than it truly is, and they both get their usual shared favourite of sweet buns – the Faerghus recipe, because it’s the sweetest and reminds them both of their time as students.

Caspar forces Linhardt to take their food outside, because it’s ‘_T__oo good a day to spend huddled indoors’_ and Linhardt doesn’t even complain, just follows him until they reach one of the spots they used to frequent years ago, where Caspar would practice his axe swings and Linhardt would observe and offer critique, but ultimately would just use the time to fall asleep on the soft grass.

When they sit, it’s like no time has passed at all. It’s as though there’s no war raging across Fódlan and the fabric of history remains intact. It’s like they’re kids again, sneaking food and sharing scary stories that Linhardt refuses to admit have actually keep him uncharacteristically awake on more than one occasion.

Companionable silence, the kind that’s not heavy, but welcome and _nice_ falls over them as they eat their pastries, and unexpectedly, its Linhardt who breaks it, because he can see how hard Caspar is thinking, and knows he needs some reassurance. Because even though he’s telling himself he’s still ‘researching’ Caspar, he already knows more about him than anyone else.

“She means you’re unpredictable,” he says, and Caspar looks at him as though he’s just given him a riddle to solve. “Petra,” he prompts.

“Oh, right.” He looks down at his sweet bun.

“That’s not a bad thing,” Linhardt says, even though he’s sure Caspar doesn’t believe him. “It’s not,” he says again because Caspar’s looking away now.

“I just wish people would say _good_ things about me,” he says, and Linhardt decides that he doesn’t like this particular furrow of his brow. He looks unsure, frustrated. It’s nothing like his concentrated furrow, the one that he really enjoys, the one that Linhardt knows precedes some expertly improvised, yet reckless plan that nobody else could ever possibly conceive because nobody else thinks like Caspar. “Like, how strong I am, or how scary I am to fight, not that I’m still an untamed disaster that gets by on luck.”

Linhardt pushes his empty plate to the side and takes Caspar’s too, discarding it ungracefully with a dangerous clatter, so that his lap is clear and he rests his head in it, using his friend as a pillow. Caspar’s eyes widen slightly, but he flattens his legs so that it’s more comfortable for Linhardt to lie down. Unsure of what to do with his hands, Caspar settles for leaning backwards, using them to prop himself up against the grass.

Content with their new position, Linhardt closes his eyes.

“Remember when I told you that statistically, taller people win fights against shorter people when their skill is of equal level?”

“How can I forget?” Linhardt can hear the pout in Caspar’s voice, and he smiles fondly.

“Yes, well,” he yawns, because whenever he seems to lie down, his body betrays him and brings forth the tidal wave of tiredness. “Do you also remember that you completely and utterly proved me wrong by beating up multiple knights that were not only taller than you, but also older and probably stronger?”

“Well yeah, but that was because I followed your secret plan,” Caspar says.

Linhardt shakes his head as best as he can whilst still keeping it on Caspar’s lap. “No, it was because you’re so _unpredictable_. Nobody else can fight like you do, Caspar. That plan would not have worked for a single other person in this army. You are unique.”

Caspar doesn’t speak for a while, is unusually quiet, but Linhardt doesn’t open his eyes to see what kind of face he’s making. He eventually falls asleep, and when he wakes again over an hour later, Caspar is his usual self, bothering him about testing out his newly devised ‘unpredictable battle plan finishing move’ in a sparring session.

Linhardt has never run so fast in all of his short existence.

** ** **

Battle is never pleasant. Linhardt hates it, hates fighting, hates exerting himself, and more than anything, he despises the sight of blood. He hates it even _more_ when it’s splashed horrifically over Caspar’s face, decorating his arms and hands and seeping out of countless wounds.

They’ve taken a stronghold, pushed the Kingdom back even farther in to a corner, but Linhardt feels no elation, no sense of accomplishment like so many others. Not when there are piles of bodies from both sides scattered across the field, not when Caspar is wincing in pain and clutching his arm as he sits in Linhardt’s tent, getting blood dangerously close to his pillow.

Linhardt doesn’t say anything as he removes Caspar’s armour. It’s astonishing, really, how he’s still alive. Linhardt had watched him from the back lines, swinging his axe around at the front, with reckless abandon shouting and yelling his usual battle cry, working in perfect synchronisation with Linhardt’s long distance healing spells. But he can’t restore all the damage, not from so far away, and so now he’s left with the aftermath, with another side of Caspar to learn more about, despite the less than desirable circumstances.

It’s a tired Caspar, a Caspar that’s expunged all of his energy so thoroughly that his limbs are weak and lifeless. A Caspar that’s hungry and tired and exhausted, and yet still manages to send small smiles of encouragement Linhardt’s way as he undoes the clasps that keep his pauldrons in place. More importantly, and perhaps more selfishly, it’s a Caspar that only Linhardt gets to see.

“You used a new spell today,” Caspar says and it catches Linhardt off-guard, because he can’t remember ever learning a new thread of magic.

“Did I?” Linhardt asks with a frown as he places the last of Caspar’s armour on to the floor, and rolls up his sleeves so they won’t get dirty.

“Well, I dunno, but, it felt different. Your healing magic, I mean.”

“How so?” Linhardt’s intrigued to say the least. Healing magic _feeling_ different under varied emotion? Now that was an interesting topic of discussion. His pulse quickens involuntarily under the stress of not knowing what Caspar will say next.

“It just felt… better than usual I guess.”

Linhardt raises an eyebrow and Caspar backtracks, “Not that it doesn’t usually feel good! It’s just, it worked quicker? Made me feel stronger? _Argh_, I don’t know. It just was different. Okay?”

He can’t remember doing anything differently during that battle, can’t remember casting any other spells than _heal_ and _physic_, but he thinks he gets what Caspar means. His spells probably, somehow, feel different because his _intent_ has changed – his emotions are more realised than they once were. Linhardt has more reasons for Caspar to stay alive, has a greater need to see him continue smiling than ever before.

Linhardt hums behind a smile and gets to work locating all of the cuts and slices that are sending blooming patches of blood across Caspar’s undershirt. He feels nauseated and lightheaded, staring at _so much blood_ but he doesn’t want to send Caspar to any of the other healers, so he settles for closing his eyes partially and turning away as he arrives at each wound.

Familiar blue light emanates from his hand as he casts_ heal_ and he hears Caspar heave contented sighs of relief as the pain starts to ebb and flow away in to nothingness. It’s oddly peaceful, for the time so soon after such a chaotic battle – it had gone on for days, Linhardt had thought there’d be no end. And yet the familiar minutes in which he heals Caspar’s wounds have resurfaced again and he knows they’ll stay together for a few more days at the very least.

When the wounds on his arms have closed, when there’s nothing but pale, dirt covered skin remaining, Linhardt moves to his back and chest where he removes the shirt altogether. If he hadn’t already done it so many times before, and if there wasn’t so much blood, he might have suppressed a blush at seeing his friend’s bare skin. As it stands, he studies the blossoming bruises over the expanse of Caspar’s shoulders, where weapons have crashed down upon his armour with brute force, but haven’t quite penetrated the metal to make contact with skin, and thinks that he just wants this war to be _over already_ so he never has to repair such damage ever again.

“Did you see that one move I did?” Caspar asks, and his voice sounds livelier with every patch of pain that Linhardt removes.

“It’s been a long three days,” he says. “You performed a lot of interesting moves, Caspar.”

He’s standing behind him, working on a superficial cut on his neck, and he can see the way Caspar’s ears turn red under the praise.

“The one I did today,” he answers. “The spin attack!”

_Ah_, Linhardt thinks, _yes, the spin attack_. The one where he’d left himself open to attack on multiple fronts to stand still and spin around, axe held outwards in a deathly whirl. The attack for which Linhardt had sent such a strong healing spell to cover for him as three soldiers charged at him, that he’d almost passed out himself. At the time, he’d cursed Caspar beyond comprehension, but after seeing him take out all three soldiers with said attack, and the elation on his face after his plan had succeeded, Linhardt felt all of his discomfort melt away.

“Ah yes,” Linhardt says fondly, “_that attack_. I seem to recall them running in fear of the ‘_Blue Hurricane_’.”

“What? _Really_? They said that?” Caspar turns around, blue eyes searching Linhardt’s own, alight with wonderment and excitement.

In truth, Linhardt hadn’t really heard anyone call Caspar such a name, but nobody else would ever know that, and Linhardt will argue the integrity of such a statement to the death if anyone dares to question it. Especially if it means Caspar will continue to look at him in such a way.

“Most definitely. You were quite the force of nature. Now turn back around, I’m not finished.”

“Hah, I knew it,” he grins, and faces forwards again. “Blue Hurricane, huh. Maybe I should make the spin attack my staple move.”

“I don’t think it’s the spin attack that makes you the Blue Hurricane,” Linhardt tries, because the spin attack is _not_ good for Linhardt’s health and he definitely does _not_ want to have to expend all of his energy keeping him safe through such a move during every battle henceforth. “It’s like I said, your unpredictable nature leaves your enemies bewildered and unable to find their footing. As though a hurricane has swept them away.”

Caspar goes quiet again, which in itself is a rare occurrence, and Linhardt takes that time to finish up by healing the cut on Caspar’s cheek. His face is red, and he’s avoiding eye contact all of a sudden. Linhardt doesn’t say anything, just holds his hand above the wound and watches it disappear behind the blue light.

His stare lingers on Caspar for a moment longer than it should, on the way Caspar’s pointedly training his gaze towards the ground, on the unclothed skin of his torso and the way he’s pressed his lips in to a hard line. Linhardt feels the sudden urge to learn how Caspar’s face feels under his touch when he’s not funneling magic in to it, wants to run his thumb along the old scar that’s fading just below his left eye, and to see how soft it would feel under his lips should he dare to bestow it with a kiss.

“All done,” Linhardt says instead with a yawn. He grabs a spare shirt from his belongings, because they’re almost the same size now, and hands it over before sitting on the bed next to him. “I’m tired,” he yawns, and knows that’s not unfair of him to say, they’ve been battling for so long after all, and he’s just used an awful lot of magic personally healing his closest friend.

So he doesn’t feel bad when he lies down and rests his feet in Caspar’s lap where he’s still unmoving at the end of it. “You’re going to make your head explode if you think any harder,” he says, and Caspar looks at him as though he’s just been caught doing something unlawful. Linhardt taps the space next to him on the rickety bed and waits for Caspar to join him – it’s not the first time they’ve slept side by side, and he certainly hopes it won’t be the last.

Linhardt thinks he might have crossed one of those invisible lines all of a sudden when Caspar doesn’t move immediately, so he closes his eyes and distances himself from the impending and awkward rejection. Eventually, _thankfully_, he hears and feels Caspar shuffling and soon enough his weight settles beside Linhardt’s own.

He’s almost asleep when Caspar speaks again.

“I don’t think I know where I’d be without you, Linhardt.”

“Dead, most likely.”

The bed shakes lightly as Caspar laughs, and true to his unpredictability, he reaches and finds Linhardt’s hand that’s resting in the space between them, circling his own around it until they’re entwined together.

Linhardt just smiles and squeezes Caspar’s hand tightly to let him know he doesn’t want him to let go, and then he falls in to his well-earned sleep, thoughts and dreams occupied with Caspar’s hidden, soft voice and the feel of his hand under his own.

** ** **

_It’s over. Really. Truly. Permanently._

It’s all he can keep repeating in his mind as he thinks back over the past five years of war, of the times where everything seemed so bleak and pointless, to the time when Professor Byleth had returned and turned the tides back in to their favour, of the suffering, the pain and discomfort. And now it’s all over. Has been for days and yet it still doesn’t feel real.

It’s an odd time. Those first few days after the war ceases, nobody quite knows what to do or where to go, stuck in limbo, floating between ideas and obligations. Most of them head back to the monastery to get their bearings, Linhardt included.

And he’s here now, lying on the grass next to a nearby river that he’s found a few minutes’ walk from the front gate, reading a book that he’s wanted to read for a_ very_ long time. In times of peace, he wants nothing more than to find all of the best places to sleep and relax, completely undisturbed and calm.

He definitely would be, he thinks, if Caspar weren’t splashing around in the river water and spoiling the serenity of his peaceful woodland napping place. Still, he can’t complain, he’d rather Caspar be there at his side, remaining his usual noisy self, than to be anywhere else. In truth, Linhardt is still waiting for the inevitable and unwanted news that he’ll be returning home and they’ll no longer be an arm’s length away.

Because if war has done anything for Linhardt, its write the conclusive paragraph to his Caspar thesis, and all it seems to say, quite unhelpfully, is _I’m in love with him._

“Hey Linhardt, look at this rock I found!”

Caspar’s trudging towards him, dripping wet even though he’s tried to roll his trousers up to his knees, and when he gets close enough, he’s leaving droplets of water on the pages of Linhardt’s book.

“It’s the same colour as your hair!” he says, holding out a dark green stone that’s small and round from its time spent rubbing against other pebbles for probably hundreds of undisturbed years. Until it met Caspar, that is.

Linhardt takes it, dries it off against his shirt, observes it for a while, and then puts it in to his coat pocket.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Mine now.”

“No, I want it! Give it back.” He reaches forward to try and take it and Linhardt rolls to the side just in time to watch Caspar fall on his face.

He laughs, and Linhardt joins him, but it’s all a tactical ploy, a distraction, because Caspar suddenly reaches over and tries to shove his hand in to Linhardt’s pocket like a dastardly good-looking thief. Linhardt’s not giving it up though, it’s such an innocently cute trinket, but it’s something that he wants to keep to remind himself of this day, this time that he’s spending with Caspar now because he’s not sure what the future is going to hold and he wants to cling to these memories for as long as he can.

Caspar falls on top of him, and then they’re rolling, down the river bank and soon, Linhardt’s trousers are wet because they’ve landed near the water. Their positions reverse, so Linhardt hovers over Caspar and he looks at him, at his exuberant smile that’s all bright white teeth and blush cheeks and blue hair that’s got stray pieces of grass and twig stuck in it from their tussle. Linhardt reaches out to pull them free, but stops midway when Caspar’s breathing hitches and he extricates himself from his friend instead, wary of the metaphorical line.

He sits next to Caspar, and checks to see if he still has the stone, but he doesn’t. The weight has disappeared from his pocket and he pats himself urgently in an attempt to place it. Caspar starts laughing again, and when he looks over, he’s holding the stone with a grin.

“It’s only fair,” he says, holding it up to the sun and admiring it as though it's a precious gem. “It reminds me of you, so I get to keep it. Find your own stone.”

On any other day, Linhardt would have rolled his eyes and trudged back up the hill to lie down and nap, exhausted and tired and entirely unwilling to get himself wet on an unnecessary dip in to the river. But today, he finds a surge of energy and removes his boots and rolls up his trousers too.

“Fine,” he says like a petulant child, and Caspar seems surprised by his enthusiasm towards a mere rock, but he doesn’t question it, just watches on amusedly.

The water is freezing cold, the shade from the trees seems to have denied it any warmth and Linhardt hisses when his toes make contact with the uneven stones beneath the trickling stream. He has no idea how Caspar was able to find such a brilliant stone amongst all of the dull tones of grey and brown, especially when the water moves so quickly that it makes it hard to see what’s lurking beneath. Regardless, it takes him a few minutes more to find one that he likes enough to bend down and grab. It’s mostly a light grey, but a tad darker than all of the others, and has just the slightest hint of blue to it, so when Linhardt holds it at the right angle against the sun, it matches the colour of Caspar’s eyes in the morning.

“Let me see it,” Caspar shouts excitedly from where he’s taken a seat under the tree that Linhardt once occupied with his book. Linhardt grabs his boots upon his exit from the water and throws himself back down on to the grass, shaking his feet dry.

“Hm, it’s not as good as mine,” he grins, “but maybe I’m just biased.”

“Total bias,” Linhardt says, clutching his new stone tightly. “Mine is obviously better.”

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one,” Caspar pockets his stone and lays back, stretching his arms out behind his head. A light breeze tousles his hair and Linhardt smiles and joins him.

They lie together for a while, hands dangerously close to touching, but just not quite close enough, and Linhardt thinks he’d like this moment to last forever and smiles even wider when he realises that’s a reality that _could_ actually happen, because the war is over, and there’s no more fighting to be done.

“Hey Linhardt,” Caspar says after a while of hard thinking. “What are you doing to do next?”

“Probably take a nap,” he says because he really doesn’t want to answer the _intended_ question. He doesn’t want to find out. Not yet.

“No,” he can hear Caspar shaking his head against the grass and he closes his eyes. “In life,” he clarifies. “Are you going back home?”

“Are _you_?”

“No,” he says and it surprises Linhardt because truthfully, he’d assumed they’d both just end up back where they’d started. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Everywhere?”

“Everywhere?” Linhardt scoffs, but it’s without scorn or mockery. It’s just that it’s such a _Caspar_ thing to say. There are so many places in Fódlan to see, so many places _outside_ of Fódlan and yet he just wants to see _everywhere._

“We saw so much, during the war,” he says and his voice quietens like it does when he’s alone with Linhardt sometimes, when he’s serious. “But it was always just to fight. I want to see the world without fighting, appreciate the peace.”

Linhardt can’t think of anything more pleasing than to travel the world with Caspar at his side with nothing to worry for, no family to impress and no expectation to hold up. No burdens, no fighting, no trouble. Just Caspar and forever.

“What about you?” Caspar asks again.

“I think I’ll probably just follow you wherever you go,” he admits and it feels nice to say, feels freeing and true.

Caspar sits up abruptly, and Linhardt cracks open an eye to see that he’s staring at him with what can only be described as a look of pure determination, a look that’s also decorated by a furious blush.

“Do you mean that?” he asks.

“Of course,” Linhardt says as though the answer is obvious, “we’ve been inseparable since we were six. I can hardly leave you _now_.”

“Are you doing that sarcastic thing?” his eyes are narrowed with scepticism.

Linhardt gets brave and covers Caspar’s hand with his own, squeezing like he did that time after battle, because he needs him to know that he’s serious, he needs him to know how he feels without the words getting stuck in his throat.

“No,” he says and stares at their hands because looking directly at Caspar is just too difficult. “Because I don’t know where I’d be without you either.”

“Probably sleeping,” Caspar says.

“Definitely sleeping,” Linhardt laughs.

“So you’re really coming with me? What if you get bored of me?”

“Yes I'm going with you,” Linhardt says and thinks there’s no more time to waste remaining the way they are with words still left unspoken and feelings left unexplored. If he’s going to go everywhere, he can’t be walking the line like a tightrope, never really knowing if the fall is fatal or a freefall towards bliss. “I can hardly get bored of you, I think I love you too much.”

There’s a gasp and Linhardt feels like maybe he’s said the wrong thing and shattered their entire future, but then he gets tackled to the ground again and Caspar’s arms are around him and he’s mumbling something in to Linhardt’s neck.

“What was that?” he asks shakily.

Caspar dislodges himself and looks directly in to Linhardt’s eyes, his own, burning and brimming with the beginnings of tears.

“I _said_, do you really mean that?”

“Are you ever actually going to believe what I say first time around?” But when Caspar just looks at him, uncertain and desperate for reaffirmation, Linhardt nods. “Yes, I mean it. I love you.”

“Good,” Caspar breathes, “because I love you too, OK? So now you’re stuck with me forever. No taking it back now.”

Linhardt chuckles, but Caspar’s words make him feel lighter than air, as though he could join the birds above the clouds, and when Caspar tucks a piece of Linhardt’s hair behind his ear and leans in, his heart is hammering and dancing inside his chest and it’s making his smile widen.

When their lips meet, it’s like Linhardt’s home. Like all of the pieces of all of the puzzles to ever exist have come together, and the bigger picture is beyond what his imagination could ever have conceived. Caspar is warm yet rough; gentle, yet sturdy, and Linhardt clings to him, fists his hand in Caspar’s shirt and thinks he never wants to let go because this feeling is what he’s been searching for.

It’s a feeling he knows he’ll never get bored of, because Caspar will never bore him - he’s simply too interesting.

“I wonder what everywhere looks like,” Caspar says a little while later, when they’re tired out, and their lips are sore and they’re breathless under the setting sun.

“I can’t wait to find out,” Linhardt says, because their forever is only just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me about fire emblem on twitter @/berriesmangoes <333


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